


Latency

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Clothed Sex, D/s themes, Dom!Wald, Enemies and Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It, Future Fic, Injury, Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Regret, Romance, Sub!Ed, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 17:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13416501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: “I loved you selfishly, once,” Oswald corrects, softly as he can manage. “Now I love you,selflessly.”“Semantics!” Edward spits out, half a laugh and half a sob. “Semantics—how long have you been trying to sacrifice yourself for me?





	Latency

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you ever so much to Flux for being such a wonderful, helpful beta!
> 
> Have some self-indulgent almost-nonsense.  
> ~R

The safehouse stinks of rotten fish and there’s no interior lighting, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Oswald stumbles as he passes over the threshold, closing his eyes at the shuddering, jolting pain—it doesn’t fade when he freezes, just transforms into a dull thudding ache. Twenty minutes—he’ll just have to hold on for twenty minutes, and in the meantime bear Edward Nygma’s apparently ceaseless inquisition. If he could just rest—but, oh—the man doesn’t _stop_.

“Why did you—”

“—Edward—” He has to brace himself against the wall to shuffle forward, and he can feel slivers of wood embedding into his worn palms. Eventually he gives up, halting about halfway into the ten foot by ten foot dilapidated harbor cottage.

Edward sweeps past him, stray beams of light catching on his sparkling coat, his absurd, glittering peacocking distracting from the very real anguish on his face. Oswald knows him well enough to recognize it.

“You told me it meant _nothing_!” Edward yells. He’s worrying at the knot of his tie with shaking hands. Oswald’s eyes flicker to it, concerned. Ed’s hat is long lost, and his hair hangs around his face in limp blackened strands. One of his glasses lens is cracked. There’s soot on his nose.

“I did not.”

“You said you _hated_ me!” Edward howls, and he _certainly_ doesn’t hear the anguish in his own voice, or he never would have opened his mouth.

“I did not,” Oswald responds. He’s certain his disimpassioned tone is sending Edward into an even wilder frenzy, but he doesn’t have the strength to inject emotion into his speech. “I said my feelings for you will never be what they once were.”

“You _loved_ me once, and so, by your own admission, you _can’t_ now!” Edward finally yanks apart the knot of his tie and hurls it to the dirty safehouse floor. His hands clench and unclench, nervously, uncertain in their sudden freedom.

“I loved you selfishly, once,” Oswald corrects, softly as he can manage. “Now I love you, _selflessly_.”

“Semantics!” Edward spits out, half a laugh and half a sob. He spins around to face the wall of the safehouse, shoulders rising defensively. “ _Semantics_ —and you just—”

“I thought you’d appreciate it in retrospect,” Oswald says, a little self-consciously and a little fondly.

Edward lets out a noise, an agonized noise, and turns to face him again with such a pathetically _betrayed_ expression that Oswald begins to laugh but chokes instead, clutching the front of his waistcoat and doubling over.

And before he can blink open his eyes Edward is there, his hands clammy even through the material of Oswald’s dress shirt, his hands shaking faintly, smelling like gunpowder and copper. He’s gripping Oswald around the waist and at the shoulder, his terribly familiar, quivering, adrenalin-spent body too close and too far, all at once.

“In _retrospect_?” Edward asks, voice pitched low. His face isn’t far from Oswald’s, now; his arms are wrapped around Oswald, bracing him. “How long have you been trying to sacrifice yourself for me? Was it only a matter of time?”

Oswald’s eyes slide shut. “How long have we been here? ETA was twenty.”

“It’s been six minutes.” Edward’s breath is hot on his face. “In _retrospect_?”

“Yes, in _retrospect_ ,” Oswald snaps testily. The pain is starting to get to him. His hands feel hot and liquidy—has he bled through his waistcoat already? “Forgive me if I hoped you might think back on our—our—”

“Dalliances?”

“—on our _engagements_ with fondness.”

“Oswald, you—”

“There’s a note. Martin knows to get it to you.”

“If you _die_?” Edward demands. 

The world’s taking on a misty edge, and Oswald blinks slowly, surprised to find his face tucked into Ed’s chest. His nose is resting against Edward’s collarbone, and he can feel the rapid hummingbird beat of Ed’s heart underneath his cheek. 

“You’ve been waiting to sacrifice yourself for me,” Ed says.

“Why not?” Oswald says fuzzily. “My reputation hardly matters _then_.”

“Is that what stopped you? Your reputation?” Ed’s chest rumbles when he speaks. The sensation is soothing, and Oswald’s eyes slip shut. “Oswald!” His eyes flutter back open, but he can’t quite manage to focus them.

“Your reputation, my reputation,” Oswald explains laboriously. He lifts a hand, which moves sluggishly like the air’s been turned to molasses, and drops it against Ed’s waist. Ed’s _warm_ underneath his hand, but his grip is slickery and weak. “ _Our_ reputations. And what _you’d_ do…”

“Ridicule you?” Ed asks faintly.

“Try to kill me for the audacity, my dear,” Oswald admonishes. His words are slurring together and the endearment escapes him without a thought. Too weary to recall it, he forges on: “I liked the sex, too. Didn’t fancy freezing you again.”

“Maybe I would’ve beaten you this time.” Ed whispers, voice trembling.

Oswald snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ed.”

“Yeah,” Ed murmurs. There’s a soft pressure against the top of Oswald’s head. “ETA eight minutes.” A pause. “Oswald, don’t fall asleep.”

“Mmm?”

Silence.

“You can’t die.”

“Mmm.”

The sentiment warms Oswald vaguely, but he can’t feel his legs and his mouth won’t cooperate and he drifts…drifts….

○

“I have dealt with _many_ worse villains than _you_ , Mr. Riddler, and I won’t hesitate to throw you out if you can’t calm down!”

Edward forces himself to halt. His heart is racing in his throat—well—no, his heart isn’t in his throat, his heart is in his chest where it belongs— _it doesn’t feel like it is, huh, Eddie?_ —but his _pulse_ is thudding in his throat and he’s not sure if he wants to kill her or beg for her help.

“I—need—to—see—him,” Edward bites out, an amalgamation of dread and venom.

Her face softens. “I know you have some medical knowledge, Mr. Nygma, but I assure you my staff is more than qualified. These things take time.”

Edward inhales, and the sharp scent of antiseptic soothes him faintly, like a child receiving their stuffed animal safe from the wash. “When can I see him?”

“We think he’ll be out of surgery in another hour or so, but it’s hard to predict. If another artery starts bleeding—”

“I _know_.”

“You just need to be patient.”

Edward lets out a noise of frustration and buries his fingers in his hair, tugging on the strands in an attempt to ground himself. She falls silent, face sympathetic, and after a moment, opens her mouth to respond; but Edward is busy listening to someone else.

 _Nooormally I’m a fan of killing our closest friends, I won’t lie._ The voice manifests as a tickle up Edward’s spine and he shudders reflexively, blind to the woman in front of him. _But if he dies—and there’s no one to blame: those little_ rascals _you were fighting are all already dead—you_ and _I waste away shadowed by guilt and regret._

“Are you all right?”

Edward jerks to attention, staring wild-eyed at the woman in front of him. “Restroom,” he says curtly, and makes an abrupt about-face and rushes down the hall.

He glances frantically around the room after he enters: empty, clean, white, modern lines—not that he’d expect anything less in the Penguin-funded rogue’s hospital. He braces himself on one of the sinks and stares into his reflection, ragged breaths shaking his frame. There’s nothing. It’s normal: just his own distraught face looking back at him, soot and ash in his hair, glasses lens cracked.

A familiar hand reaches from behind him to curl around his throat.

_We’ll be nothing without him. Remember the last time you grieved. This time there will be nothing left._

“What should I—”

 _The decision is already made._ This time the voice doesn’t sound so much like himself—like a mockery of himself. It’s pitched higher, raspy—Oswald’s other arm wraps around his torso, although the touch is intangible. _You gave yourself up to me._

The tears in his eyes spill over, and they’re hot, frustrated tears.

_If I die, will you ever manage to forget me?_

Edward leans over the sink and the hands dissolve like early morning mist.

○

The night that changed everything, he was balanced on the blade of a knife. Oswald came to him, draped in pleasant guile and sharp, glimmering edges. And Edward has always loved dangerous things.

“What are you doing here?” Ed asked him, harsher than intended, the words sharp and venomous.

And Oswald stepped closer, his eyes turning pensive, his lips sorrowful. “You’re in so much pain,” he said, the echoes of pity in his gaze. “I can make it stop, for a little while.”

Had Oswald heard the perpetual mocking, the cruel diatribes? The ridicule? The denial of his genius? Oswald put his hand on Edward’s forearm, the touch warm, and it had been _so long_ ….

Edward gave in without further thought, leaning into the unfamiliar caress. Oswald’s eyes were glowing in the dark, quiet lighting of his hideout, and Edward found himself drawing closer, pressing a chaste kiss to Oswald’s lips.

Oswald’s lips were soft and warm against his, delicate and terrifying. Edward’s eyes were shut, and he shuddered as Oswald hummed against his mouth, warm, _hot_ against Edward’s lips; then he lifted his hand to Edward’s shoulder and pulled away. A whine escaped from Edward’s lips as his eyes flew open in protest.

But Oswald only smiled mysteriously, and with a gentle, guiding touch to his waist pressed him backward, backward, until he tumbled onto the surface of his unmade bed—Had it been a temptation to Oswald, to see the tangled bedclothes? Was the question worth entertaining?—his breath leaving him in a nervous huff. He felt his heart beginning to race as Oswald slid over him on hands and knee, strangely sinuous despite the fact that one leg bore none of his weight.

Oswald’s hot breath tickled his lips, and nervously Edward darted his tongue out to wet them. Oswald’s lashes flickered, his face dropping low to Edward’s, lips centimeters apart.

“Os—” Edward said, unthinking, unsure what he wanted to say—before he could make an attempt, Oswald attacked him with sweet, painful kisses—laid claim to his mouth—with focused warmth that reminded Edward inexplicably of cinnamon.

There was a tug on his hair: Oswald’s fingers, entwined in the strands. Oswald pulled his lips away, briefly, and shifted focus to Edward’s jaw, his teeth nipping gently at the bone. “Far too many clothes,” Oswald said, the words caressing Edward’s chin, and Edward _agreed_ , pushing his hands awkwardly between their torsos to unfasten the buttons of his shirt one by one, his knuckles brushing against Oswald’s satin waistcoat, the material too soft, too gentle when he could feel Oswald’s _heat_ and his own hunger fizzling in the air between them.

Oswald’s tongue darted out to lap at his skin, then his mouth drifted lower, to Edward’s open collar, and Edward’s breath caught in his lungs as Oswald pressed a kiss to the rapid pulse in his throat and then bared his teeth to nip the tender skin, feeling a poignant sort of vulnerability at the knowledge of Oswald’s inherent danger and the care he took with his movements.

When Edward reached the last button of his shirt, his knuckles brushing at Oswald’s trousers, Oswald reared up onto his knees with a grimace. “Off,” he ordered curtly, and, feeling at once cold and lost, Edward yanked his shirt off with awkward haste.

As soon as he was bare, Oswald fell forward toward him once again, his lips brushing Edward’s cheek. “I need you to hold still for me,” he said softly. “Can I trust you to do that?”

Edward nodded frantically, feeling a burning _heat_ in his growing erection, still trapped within his underwear and trousers. How stifled Oswald must have been in his layers of clothes—as the shorter man shuffled down, Edward opened his mouth to ask—

Heat against his left nipple, and Edward _groaned_ , the noise torn from him, his hips jolting upward toward Oswald and electric mindless _heat_ traveling straight down to his cock. Oswald was _sucking_ on his nipple and no one had ever—Edward’s head rolled back, his back arching mindlessly, pressing into Oswald’s touch, his hips rocking up unconsciously. Oswald pressed a leg in between his, and Edward wrapped his legs around his thigh, pressing his burning erection against Oswald with reckless abandon.

He threw his arms around Oswald’s shoulders, clinging to the fabric of his suit and letting a choked gasp escape his lips. Oswald pulled away briefly, lapping at the tender skin before bringing his hand up to Edward’s other nipple and dragging his thumbnail over it.

Edward yelped and rocked his hips against Oswald, a sharp thrill running through him, and then Oswald’s lips returned to his left nipple, and the warm, fizzling pleasure of it swept over him, loosening his limbs before Oswald scratched his right one again.

A high, keening noise escaped him, burning his throat, the contrast of pain and pleasure terrifyingly arousing—and then Oswald bit down on his nipple, and Edward _sobbed_ , his hips rocking up against Oswald’s thigh autonomously, his fingers digging into Oswald’s shoulders.

Oswald lifted his head away, so that his lips were just brushing Edward’s painfully sensitized nipple, and whispered: “There’s something so perfect about the contrast of pleasure and pain. Wouldn’t you say?”

Edward gasped quietly in response, pressing his erection against Oswald’s thigh and shuddering.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Oswald murmured. He dragged his fingernails down Edward’s ribs, scoring him with bright pink lines, and the sharp points of focus made Edward shake, aching for more of Oswald’s soft-sharp- _good_ touches.

Oswald sighed, hot air making Edward’s nipple tingle, and pressed a final soft kiss to the skin as he dug his fingernails into Edward’s waist, holding him in place as he struggled to instinctively thrust up against Oswald.

Oswald’s mouth moved down, down his ribs, teeth grazing against the lines of bone, and Edward’s legs fell from around his, spreading wide on the mattress so that Oswald could slide down between them. The hot press of Oswald’s torso, solid underneath the layers of finery, pressed his erection from tip to base and Edward rolled his hips desperately with the movement. Finally Oswald’s mouth was low on Edward’s hip, right above the line of his trousers. Oswald parted his lips, darting his hot tongue out against Edward’s skin.

And Edward couldn’t _stand_ it any longer—he was shaking, trembling from Oswald’s touch, and he reached down to unfasten his fly. But Oswald’s hands tangled with his and then took possession of his trousers and slid off of the bed, tugging them down the length of Edward’s legs and then _off_ , completely. The only thing left covering him was his underwear, which did nothing to conceal his hard length. Oswald seemed to pause, eyes focused on Edward’s arousal, and Edward held his breath, aching, hoping—his legs spread wide and dangling off the edge of the mattress, his hard length _burning_ between his legs, needy, desperate.

“Oh, Ed,” Oswald sighed. Edward moaned, his eyes slipping shut. “You have such _long_ legs.” His tone was appreciative, intense, pleased, and Edward’s cock jerked at Oswald’s approval. No one had ever— _talked_ about him like that before.

“You’re made up entirely of graceful lines,” Oswald continued. “The slope of your shoulders, the line of your collarbone—Ed, you are a _masterpiece_.”

A whine tore from his lips. He could feel tears burning in his eyes even as he thrust up into empty air once again.

“No one’s told you that?” Oswald sounded genuinely caught off-guard, and it was all Edward could do to nod pitifully. “Well…” There was a pause, and his tone, when it resumed, was darker. “…let me be the first, then.”

Edward blinked his teary eyes open to find that Oswald had dropped to his knees by the edge of the bed, between Edward’s spread legs. His breath caught in his lungs. Would Oswald…

Narrowing his eyes, Oswald instead lowered his head to press his lips against Edward’s knee.

Edward sighed shakily, the breath trembling through his lungs and out from between his lips. The soft touch of Oswald’s lips to his knee was tempting and terrifying. He was still hard, _achingly_ hard, but it felt good to be like this—unlike the sharp pin pricks of sensitivity Oswald’s nails had brought, this made his whole _body_ light up, the feel of Oswald’s soft lips suddenly _overwhelming, absorbing_.

“You’re so sensitive,” Oswald murmured into his skin. “The lightest touch tears you apart, Ed.”

Oswald’s hands slid up his thighs. Edward sobbed as Oswald’s fingers slipped underneath the elastic line of his underwear.

“Okay?” Oswald asked.

“Please,” Edward whimpered. Oswald obliged, slipping Edward’s underwear down, freeing his erection from its confinement. Oswald shifted on his knees, suppressing his barely-visible grimace of pain, and Edward couldn’t help but stare at the sight of Oswald’s face so close to his erection.

Oswald smiled, then; a small, quiet sort of smile. Edward’s heart thundered in his chest.

And Oswald broke his gaze; his fingers wrapped around Edward’s calf, lifting up his leg. Edward panted, feeling _open_ , his legs _spread_ , and when Oswald rested Edward’s calf on his shoulder, Edward shuddered and moaned at the simple touch. Oswald’s suit was warm and soft and stunningly arousing on the skin of his bare leg—Oswald hadn’t removed a stitch of clothing and Edward was _naked_ , spread out before him—

“Look how gorgeous you are,” Oswald hummed, and the burning in his eyes caught Edward off guard. A hot tear landed on his cheek and he quickly lay back down, resting the back of his head on the mattress and hiding Oswald’s face from view. His hardness ached, and the tears kept slipping from his eyes. He bit his lip, _hard_ , desperate to stifle any noises that might escape; his fingers curled into the fabric of the blanket, lest he grab Oswald and push him away—pull him closer—he didn’t know.

He felt the press of Oswald’s nose against his thigh, the heat of his lips and mouth against the skin. “Thank you for sharing this with me,” Oswald said. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss a little higher on Edward’s inner thigh. “Your skin is so soft.” Another kiss, longer this time. When he pulled away he nipped at the skin, and Edward’s hips jerked up. He wasn’t sure which was hotter on his skin, Oswald’s mouth or his own tears.

The wonderful, horrible, _beautiful_ way Oswald explored him, his aquiline nose grazing the skin, a delicate reminder of his presence—the sharp bite of his teeth, all of it worked to undo him. Oswald caressed his calf with one graceful hand, his fingernails just lightly scratching the skin. Oswald exhaled, his mouth inches away from Edward’s arousal and his hole, lips pressed to the junction of leg and hip. Oswald’s nose brushed against him and he shivered. Oswald nipped at the sensitized skin, and Edward’s body trembled.

And then Oswald pulled away. He gripped the edge of the bed and rose to his feet, looming over Edward, between his legs, in his stance laying claim over Edward’s arousal. His body slid back over Edward’s, his silk and wool brushing against Edward’s bare skin.

He didn’t blink when he saw Edward’s tears. He pressed his lips to Edward’s cheek instead. “You look _perfect_ like this, Ed. And you’ve held still so well, too, just like I asked. _Thank_ you.”

Then, and only then, when Oswald had touched every part of him and remade him, cleansed him— _then_ Oswald unfastened his own trousers, pulling out his length and stroking it once, and Edward had _melted_ at the thought—at the thought of Oswald inside him, stretching and filling him—

“You’ve been very good,” Oswald murmured. “Do you want me to fuck you now?”

“Yes— _fuck_ —yes _please_ ,” Edward pleaded.

Oswald brought his hand to Edward’s lips, his skin salty and warm. “Open,” he said, and Edward did, letting Oswald push his fingers into the warmth of his mouth. Edward curled his tongue around them, enjoying the feel of them pressing inside his mouth, stealing his wetness and warmth.

And when Oswald finally lowered his fingers to Edward’s entrance and pushed inside him, the stretch of it was almost too much to bear until Oswald raked his fingernails down Edward’s chest, catching his nipple and sending a sparking, electrical thrill of pain through him.

With swift movements, then, Oswald pulled his fingers from him and then replaced them, _shockingly_ cold and wet against his heated opening, and the push inside was easier, slicker. Edward’s toes curled, and he rocked himself into Oswald’s touch pleadingly. “Be _patient_ ,” Oswald admonished, and Edward forcibly relaxed his legs as Oswald continued to stretch him with the lube.

Eventually, _finally_ , he entered Edward easily, like they were made to fit. Edward moaned as Oswald pressed himself fully inside. He burned and ached with equal parts pleasure and pain, and when Oswald pulled out and thrust himself back inside, sharply, Edward _keened_.

His tie, his lapels brushed against Edward’s chest as he moved, and Edward wrapped his bare thighs around Oswald, imagining the _scene_ if someone were to see them: Edward totally, _shockingly_ , naked, and Oswald, still clothed in all his finery, _fucking_ him…

Before much longer he fell, and Oswald fell with him, coming inside of Edward, _marking_ him. 

And in that moment, Edward could have followed him. Would have followed him. Anywhere, everywhere.

But when he opened his eyes again, recovering from his bliss, Oswald took a step back. His eyes shuttered, the warmth disappearing and leaving behind only the placid calm surface of a lake: beautiful and featureless. As Edward watched, he refastened his trouser fly in what ought to feel like an obscene gesture—but with his customary grace, he made it look natural and understated.

He _looked_ at Edward then, and Edward had drawn in one slow, shuddering breath after another as Oswald leaned in and brushed away a sweat-slicked curl, tucking it behind his ear.

And then he left.

As Edward watched him, still panting, still trembling, faintly, he left without another word.

○

He hears the chirping of the morning birds in the trees outside. He can hear nothing else; just the chirruping and rustling of the wind, faintly, as if muffled through glass.

He opens his eyes.

There’s a pepper tree out the window. He spots a robin strutting along the end of one branch, fluttering his wings brashly. The wind causes the branch to sway, and the robin hops about before taking flight and darting out of the view of the window.

“Rise and shine, Mr. Cobblepot. How are we today?”

Oswald swallows first, testing his throat. “Like I was in direct line of an amateur pyrotechnics show.”

“That’s not inaccurate.” The woman’s voice is warm, amused. “Do you know where you are?”

He finally tilts his head, and it’s slow going—his whole body feels stiff, and especially his neck. “My private hospital room,” he says finally, gruffly. “I’m thirsty.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll go get you some ice now.”

“Wait—” He sees her stop out of the corner of his eye. “Is he still…”

“The Riddler?”

Oswald falls silent. Somehow, hearing the name of his alter ego like that, from a stranger in the cold daylight…he swallows. “Yes.”

“He’s downstairs in the waiting room.”

Oswald allows his eyes to slip shut and inhales slowly. He feels the strange internal strain at the intaken breath, but no pain—he must be on an impressive amount of medication right now. He doesn’t feel drunk or giddy, though; just gruff and tired and perhaps a little seasick. “Send him up.”

“Yes, Mr. Cobblepot.” She takes her leave, then. Oswald waits in silence, concentrating on his own long, slow breaths.

○

“Oswald.”

He looks almost angelic like this, eyes shut peacefully, skin pallid but almost glowing in the sharp, cold daylight from the window, his hair spread out on the pillow underneath him, his breaths coming slow and easy.

Then he opens his eyes, and the illusion is shattered by the ever-present hunger to his predator’s gaze.

Edward doesn’t realize they’re both waiting in silence until Oswald breaks it. “I can’t say I expected to live to see this day.”

“You expected to _die_?” Edward bites back, sharply, before thinking. Oswald’s lip twitches, but Edward doesn’t know what emotion to ascribe to it.

“I meant that I never expected to live to see the day when Edward Nygma was speechless,” Oswald corrects, weirdly gently.

“Oh.” Edward feels himself deflate, the fear and apprehension that has wound him so incredibly tight beginning to fade. Oswald’s calm, but not subdued—his eyes are deep and expressive. He’s all _right_.

“I thought…” Oswald trails off. His face looks pensive, but not closed off—a little irritated. “I thought that would have been an acceptable outcome.”

“Your _death_?” Oswald shrugs and then winces, and Edward lets out a rush of upset breath at the sight. “Do you need the nurse?”

“No.” Oswald waves his hand as if to ward Edward off, rising up onto his elbows and shifting on the bed. “Do you mean to tell me you would have _minded_? Ed…”

“Why did you leave so suddenly?” Edward blurts out.

Oswald doesn’t glance at him, staring down at his feet with apparent concentration. “When?”

“The first night.”

“Wh—”

“The first night we m—made love?”

Edward watches as Oswald freezes, his arms trembling faintly with the effort of propping up his torso. After a prolonged pause, Oswald inhales sharply, his shoulders rising with the breath. “Would you have…” his voice trails off and he collapses back against the pillows, turning his gaze up onto the ceiling. “Would you have wanted me to…stay?”

Edward swallows. His throat hurts. “Yes.”

“Oh.”

After all this…Oswald had as much as said that he still loved him, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t…take it back now that Edward has said he feels the same?

“You love me?” Edward says finally, and it comes out sounding more like a question than he intended. He clears his throat. “You love me.”

Oswald looks over at him, his eyes warm and liquid. “Yes,” he says softly.

“I…love you,” Edward adds hesitantly, softly.

A sharp inhale. Oswald stares at him, unmoving.

“Can I…” Edward gestures, nervous but more determined than ever. “Can I…”

Oswald doesn’t say a word, but peels back the bedcover and pulls it to the side, baring himself. He looks so small and cold in the hospital gown, especially his weak leg, and Edward suppresses a shudder lest it be misinterpreted. The occasional fragility of Oswald’s body terrifies him—and so soon after all _this_ …

His feet carry him forward even as his mind is too busy whirring over implications his alter made. _It’s a trap. He’ll cage you. The decision is already made. You gave yourself up to him._

_And I’m doing it again. Gladly. Eternally._

The hospital bed is narrow, and they barely fit together side-by-side. Edward scoots up and props his head up against the pillows. Oswald looks up at him silently, his tousled hair falling into his eyes. Without thinking, Edward reaches out and brushes it away. Oswald inhales sharply when their skin touches, and Edward freezes, unsure.

“Ed,” Oswald murmurs.

Edward feels his lips trembling, and he runs his fingers back through Oswald’s hair. Oswald’s eyes slip shut, his expression one of contentment. “Thank you,” Edward whispers.

“Hmm?”

Edward doesn’t respond, but tugs Oswald gently until he rests his head against Edward’s chest. Oswald lets out a soft noise, a sigh of contentment, and Edward practically shudders in response. He buries his fingers in Oswald’s hair and murmurs: “I’m afraid.”

Oswald’s hand flexes on his chest, then shifts to grip the edge of his suit jacket. “Of what?” he asks quietly, voice husky.

“I don’t know how to _be_ around you.”

Oswald’s head shifts on Edward’s chest, until he can look up into Edward’s eyes, undefined hurt in his gaze. “You love me…but you can’t stand being around me?”

Edward shakes his head vigorously, and Oswald winces and gasps as he’s shifted by Edward’s movement. The taller man stills, nervously, guiltily, and Oswald breathes slowly, trying to moderate the pain.

“…That’s not what you meant,” Oswald says after a moment.

Edward cranes his neck down until he can press his cheek to the top of Oswald’s head. Oswald brushes his hand down his chest again, stroking him like a pet, and Edward shivers. “I don’t know… _who_ to be,” Edward corrects himself, finally, and Oswald sighs.

“ _Yourself_ , Ed,” Oswald says, like it’s simple, like it’s obvious.

“I’m not the same person I was. I’m…I’ve changed.”

Oswald snorts, and pats his chest, softly. “Do you think I didn’t notice? I’ve changed too, Ed. For the better, I rather hope.”

“I’m not even the same _person_ all the time,” Edward says desperately.

“If you don’t want to do this, just _say_ it, Ed,” Oswald snaps, but his hand is gripping Ed’s lapel firmly, and his expression is hidden away from Ed’s gaze.

“I do want to. I’m just afraid.”

“Be honest with me, and I’ll be honest with you, in turn,” Oswald offers. “We haven’t always done the best, in the past, but as long as we both know what we want: each other—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Edward agrees.

“—then we’ll know we’re on the same side.” Oswald twists his neck, and Edward lifts his head so they can meet each other’s eyes. “Ed. I want us to be able to trust each other.”

“Me too,” Edward murmurs.

Oswald smiles, his eyes shining faintly. “Then there shouldn’t be a problem, my angel.”

Edward blinks. _My angel_ … Oswald said it so fondly, so obviously, when it was anything _but_. How many times has he hurt Oswald? Tried to kill him? And yet…

This is his undoing. This will _always_ be his undoing. The honesty and _adoration_ in Oswald’s eyes.

Edward leans down until he can press his lips to Oswald’s, ignoring the pain in his neck. Oswald presses back against him, the kiss chaste but firm, and when Edward parts his lips Oswald pulls away, amusement curling his lips.

“I’ve just been in surgery, Ed. I guarantee my mouth tastes disgusting.”

“Fine,” Edward allows, petulantly, and presses an emphatic kiss to Oswald’s forehead in retaliation. “You owe me,” he adds as he shifts Oswald back onto his chest to lay more easily.

“Are you going to keep a tally?” Oswald demands. “That could get old rather _quickly_.”

“Only on special occasions,” Edward replies contentedly. Oswald could insult everything about him, and right now, Edward wouldn’t care in the slightest. He’s too busy basking in the fact of Oswald’s warm body on his, his slow, easy breaths tickling Edward’s collarbone. As the silence drags on, he feels his eyes droop closed, drowsiness overtaking the mood of the room.

“‘Love you,” he murmurs again, into the silence.

“Love you, too,” is the last thing he hears before he falls asleep at last, curled around Oswald, feeling his steady breaths and heartbeat.

**FIN**


End file.
